The dervish sang: The mint, the violets Tiny leaves, tiny flowers At the foot of the tree… The journey of the pleasant fragrance On the wings of the wind In the plains In the deserts On the mountaintops The scent of grass Of fresh, green grass That goats, kids and cows can smell The journey of the scent of grass Of delicious grass To their white, foamy milk The journey of gratitude to God Morad softly, bashfully uttered, “The journey of the poem to your lips.” The dervish smiled. He looked at Morad’s face and eyes. He licked his dark, chapped lips. “What did you say?” I said, “The journey of the poem to your lips.” “Congratulations! You have just recited poetry.”

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